The Imp Act
by python862
Summary: A collection of short stories detailing stupid Warcraft laws I've been creating in my mind. Read, review, I put it to your mercy. Implied character death; satire.
1. Chapter 1: The Imp Act

**The Imp Act**

**Chapter One: The Imp Act (Trent)**

'_Should a non-warlock incidentally summon an imp or any other demonic figure, said non-warlock shall undergo tests as detailed in index A-42 of Regulatory Actions and Laws,' Regulatory Actions and Laws, section W-12; The 'Imp Act'._

It was a simply hot and miserable day. If Trent had his preference, he'd rather be in Northrend than Stranglethorn Vale. The trees towered over him silently, watching his every move. The view besides that was bleak; old decrepit Troll buildings and temples lined the distant horizon while tangles of weeds, trees, bushes and other herbage overgrew the dirt pathway leading to Booty Bay. Mosquitoes had a field day, stealing their sustenance from any and every passer-by. This, of course, included Trent.

A paladin-in-training, Trent was used to seeing exotic locales and other such places. This, however, wasn't quite as exotic as the travel brochures had mentioned. _'That's the last time I trust one of those damned things,' _he thought miserably. The mosquitoes merely buzzed and drank from his every pore.

He traveled for a time, until he came upon a travel-worn undead. Being a paladin-in-training, Trent was more than happy to take care of the pest. Unbuckling the large and heavy mace (which had been making his travels even more miserable), Trent charged the undead. Caught by surprise, the poor ex-man had no choice but to be crushed under the tremendous weight. The deed was done, and Trent was exceptionally happy, but soon a blinding light exploded from the undead man's pouches.

When the light subsided, Trent peeked from under his mail gauntlets to find a very peculiar sight; an imp stood in the center of a large circle of char, looking around in a confused manner. Finally, the diminutive creature caught sight of Trent, only thinking of him as a large man in a shiny suit. Trent, watching with bewilderment, only thought of the imp as a sort of deformed insect brought forth by some joker in the woods. He was about to raise the mace once more, but was halted by a trilling voice in his mind.

"_You summoned me… why? What do you need killed?"_

Trent gaped, mouth opened wide, at the imp. "You can speak?" he asked incredulously.

"_Of course, idiot. How do you think we communicate, with smoke signals?"_

"But I'm not a warlock, I couldn't have summoned you!" Trent explained.

"_That's in direct violation of Regulatory Actions and Laws, section W-12!" _the imp's voice hissed within the confused paladin's mind.

"What?"

The imp sighed. _"The Imp Act. Don't you keep up on your laws?"_

Trent scratched his head, more confused than ever. "No, I can't exactly say that I do. I have too much training and traveling to stop anywhere near a library."

The imp sighed again. _"Very well, fool. I'll make it nice and simple so that your puny human brain can comprehend. You. Summoned. Me. You are not a warlock. Therefore, you can either go through some very simple trials, or you can be carted off by whichever agency decides to come. I do hope it's SI:9. They have the most imaginative torture devices anywhere!" _the imp seemed to say this with delight.

This time, it was Trent's turn to sigh. "What's the first trial, then?" he asked, exasperated.

The imp chuckled in a trill. _"Alright, mortal. The first trial is so simple, one of your children can complete it with passing marks."_

Trent gulped through a newly-formed iron lump. "Passing marks? What should happen if I fail one of these trials?"

Once more, the imp chuckled. _"You'll see."_

The imp raised one of its twig-sized arms and instantly, he and Trent were transported to a dark arena, lit only in the center by arcane means. The imp lowered its hand and nodded to Trent. Suddenly, he disappeared in a _pop_ and a cloud of smoke.

"_The first trial is to summon me. Simple enough," _it said telepathically. _"Oh yes, you have two minutes before you fail by default."_

Trent became both increasingly worried and confused. How had he summoned the imp in the first place? All he remembered doing was killing that undead on the road! He had two minutes before he failed, so he had time to think. He took that time going over the steps in his mind. One of the times he _had_ stopped into Stormwind's library, he had been particularly interested in one of the dark tomes on the near-top shelf. It turned out to be a warlock's guide to summoning. But alas, that had been years ago.

The imp's trill returned to Trent's mind. _"Time's up, mortal!"_

"But it's only been ten seconds!" he complained.

"_I forgot to mention this, but in this dimension, time passes about a hundred-and-twenty times faster than in your world. Goodbye, mortal. Hope to see you in the Nether soon!"_

A white portal ripped through the dimension's very walls, beyond which showed three warriors in black mail, wearing ridiculous-looking red ties over the armor. One stepped through, clenched Trent's mail collar, and pulled him through the portal. As far as he knew, he was in some sort of dungeon. It was exactly that. No one has seen poor Trent since.

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A/N: Sorry the ending was a bit rushed, but hey, it sounds quite alright to me! I hope you enjoy, and just know that this is only a side project to take my mind off of King's Crest and Silent Soldier (Metal Gear). Still, thanks for taking the time to read my newest dribble. Enjoy! 


	2. Chapter 2: The Spellcaster's Amendment

**The Imp Act**

**Chapter Two: The Spellcaster's Amendment (Leon)**

'_Should a spellcaster cast a harmful or malicious spell against a fellow caster without his consent or outside of a dueling area, that spellcaster will be punished by means chosen by the caster affected by the spell.' Regulatory Actions and Laws, section F-9; the 'Spellcaster's Amendment'._

A particularly fun thing about being a blood elf was the expectation to look down at the lesser peoples. This included pretty much everyone besides them (and even some within themselves), but they didn't find themselves the least bit stuck up. And Leon, of course, was no different. Actually, he had become so good at both that and playing it down, he was a legendary figure. For instance, when a band of orc travelers had strolled into Silvermoon city for the night, he had the chance to glare at each twenty times for a full second before a young, brash orc had begun threatening him with an axe, the blade of which being honed so well that Leon could see his reflection quite well in the metal. At the threat, however, Leon merely had to put up the act.

He flashed a wide smile, bowed so low to the ground he could literally smell the weeds ingrown underneath the dirt road, and said in his most lyrical voice, "Welcome to Silvermoon, my good sir orc." This simple gesture had averted the situation quite well. The orc had turned to find his fellow travelers, who had already entered the inn and paid for their rooms. Lost, the young orc was left to fend for himself. Later on, the poor guy had gone mad from intense glaring.

That had been months ago, but it had remained clearly in Leon's mind. It was good to give him an occasional laugh or two. Now, though, Leon sat on his heels, kneeling on the inn's rooftop. A new arrival had indeed arrived from Bloodmyst Isle. And so, Leon sat, glaring at the elf. He had even gone so far to scowl, watching as the pale blood elf tried navigating through the streets, gaining confusion at every corner.

"Every day, another one of you fools comes to Silvermoon looking for work or an odd job," he mumbled, half to himself, half to the younger elf.

Standing, Leon tugged at his beloved robe slightly, straightening out wrinkles caused by sitting for so long. The mahogany red silk gave with hardly any pressure at all. After settling with his clothing, he hopped down from the roof and landed in the dirt with a flourish. He followed the arrival's trail as a wolf in Dun Morogh would a hapless gnome. Leon had the perfect idea for his prank; he merely needed to get close enough to the man to effect it. The cushion of space between Leon and his prey was large, but each step caused it to shrink smaller and smaller, until finally, he was within six paces.

Leon started to extend his arm tentatively, as if any sudden movements would shatter it. He prepared his spell in his mind, while keeping a wary eye on the back of his target. The arm stretched, fingers beginning to extend slightly. In a single deft movement, the elf in front of him turned on his heel to face Leon. The elf had long, golden locks of hair, tied back in a ponytail which nearly smacked Leon in the face. While the hair was not uncommon among blood elves, something quite peculiar loomed just behind the wire-frame glasses he wore.

Shining brick-red eyes sternly gazed into Leon's; scolding him silently prior to the elf behind them began. "You are nearly violating section F-9 of _Regulatory Actions and Laws_. Please desist from further action, or unpleasantness shall ensue." Leon merely blinked, absolutely bewildered.

The younger elf once again turned on his heel and began walking again. Not to be deterred in his quest for jest, Leon began once more following. The distance closed just as quickly as before, as Leon held his arm out in waiting. When he finally was in reach, he had grasped the man's shoulder.

The elf disappeared, replaced instead by a small bleating sheep, which ambled sullenly in circles. Within a minute, the man had returned to normal, red eyes and all. He shot a dangerous glare at Leon, remarkably similar to Leon's.

"I had warned you fairly," he said in a low growl. Leon gasped as the man transformed himself before his eyes. The change was complete after thirty seconds, the elf's identity chosen. He stood exactly mirroring Leon. The only difference between Leon and the elf was the pair of brick-red eyes glaring back at him.

"What… the… hell?" Leon asked, absolutely stunned. His counterpart had also said it, in perfect unison. Leon found himself only able to stare agape as he saw his disheveled brown hair, his pristine mahogany robes, and ivory boots. Instinct took precedence and Leon shot off a quick, weak and feeble fireball. The spell never even threatened to make contact with its target. Instead, the fire amplified and began a return trip. Leon's beloved robes were pristine no more, as the flame smacked directly into his chest, licking a hole through the thin silk cloth. Leon's counterpart simply kept walking.

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A/N: I hope this ending doesn't sound too rushed like the last one did. I took my time (sorta) with the character of Leon and this ending. So, as I said last chapter, enjoy, and all that jazz. 


	3. Chapter 3: The Orc Ordinance

**The Imp Act**

**Chapter Three: The Orc Ordinance (Gruk)**

'_Should one orc dishonor or assault another publicly, the orc dishonored has the right to effect a blood-feud immediately,' Orc Ordinance 59-C_

Gruk could've been described as a rather happy orc. He was financially more than stable, had a good wench to bear him suitable successors, and a villa with an excellent vista of the Valley of Trials. Overall, one might say he was well-off. Though, like any successful entity, he simply wanted more. Even his induction into orc high society wasn't enough to sate his thirst. He filled this gaping void by adventuring and touring the world; from the long-dead ruins of the human city of Lordaeron to the salt plains of the Thousand Needles.

That, however, only lasted for so long before he felt that familiar longing once more. At that point, he took up the finer arts of smashing the edge of a blade into the neck meat of some rather unfortunate beings. He had gained quite a bit of renown in the Gurubashi Arena, and between that and his already-high standing within Orgrimmar's socialites, he had become quite the celebrity. Every time he returned to the villa, there was a large horde of Horde at his doorstep. They asked for autographs, embraced him, and women oftentimes came to him with either marriage proposals or breasts bared; sometimes, even both.

Gruk, however, paid little mind. He gave the autographs, accepted the embraces, and graciously declined the marriage proposals, incentives or no. And despite the ruthless killing of others in the arena, Gruk had never abused his mate. He often made trips to the marketplace when outside of arena season, and that's where our hero is as this narrative begins.

It was a mildly warm day in the dustbowl of Orgrimmar, and Gruk was feeling rather well. He was rested and ready for the season to begin, despite its being a month away. So, he whiled away the time checking out the merchants' newest wares and equipment. His mate Cera was six-months pregnant, and as such, needed supplies. Gruk had also secretly wanted to buy armor for his much-hoped-for son. The midwife had been unable to tell the gender of the baby, but Gruk had a good feeling. After hours of browsing the shops, and spending a small bit of his rainy-day coffer, his packs were full of many and varied pieces of equipment for every stage of his boy's life. He also toted the supplies Cera had sent him for.

Quite happy with the day's results, Gruk began setting off for his abode. As usual, a group of two had waited near the entrance to the marketplace; and when Gruk had passed by, the two had followed. The leader, Gruk noticed, was a young troll wearing a shamanistic-looking shift. He had blue hair, resting lightly on the top of his head, neatly combed back. At the troll's side was a likewise young orc. The orc had oiled black hair, raised on end by a gelling salve. Two small ivory tusks protruded from his lower lip. He wore a simple suit of leather armor.

"'Ey dere, mon! What's it like bustin' all dem heads?" the troll asked in thick accent.

"I bet you crush those Alliance fools like you would a dust-beetle!" the orc gave a harsh, roaring laugh.

"Every one of my opponents is honorable and died a warrior's death. They deserve our respect, enemies or not," Gruk said simply, continuing on his walk home.

"Ah, joo just yankin' our chains, mon!" the troll jested, slashing at the air with a three-pronged hand.

Gruk halted midstride at the remark. He turned to the troll and shot off a venomous glare. "Listen, _punk_. These warriors are some of the best in the land. Some even better than I that I just happened to defeat by lucky stroke!" he roared. "If you think better, you can just go sign up at the arena and see for yourself. Until then, RESPECT YOUR ENEMY!" Gruk turned again and continued walking.

The troll seemed taken aback, but continued after Gruk nonetheless. For nearly the entire trip, Gruk was pelted by questions and remarks set forth by the two young hecklers. He snapped just outside of his home. He rushed the troll in rage. The troll, more nimble than Gruk, merely sidestepped the charge. His hands aching to strangle something, Gruk then turned to the orc.

The moment Gruk had a hand around the orc's throat, the orc called "I declare blood-feud!"

Confused, Gruk backed away from the young one. Smiling, the orc unsheathed a small dagger and charged at Gruk.

Gruk's heir would never know his legendary father.

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A/N: There you go, a third chapter, a third law. Hope you enjoyed it! Another rushed end, but it works. Umm, an update on King's Crest is upcoming in another day or two. I have it written, but I need to type it up and add it to the site. Other than that, no news. I'm also placing this update news on my profile, but remember you can always find it here first! Thanks for reading, mighty reader! 


	4. Chapter 4: The Gnome Memorandum

**The Imp Act**

**Chapter Four: The Gnome Memorandum (Cog)**

'_A gnome is required to have been punted at least one-thousand times in his lifespan. If this requirement is not met, said gnome is doomed to the Twisting Nether,' Regulatory Actions and Laws index 4-B, the 'Gnome Memorandum'_

Cog was relatively well-known. At least, as well-known as a gnome could be. His notoriety came not from adventuring, but from the amount of punting he had received over the years. Some people had believed that something somewhere in his brain had gone 'haywire'; and so he had been allowing every passer-by a punt. But Cog had been smart about it – for every punt, he received two silver pieces. So, with each punt, Cog became two silver coins richer.

But, one day, something happened to Cog's ready-and-willing attitude. The very same people who had said that he was mental now believed that the problem had been corrected by mass amounts of punting. Cog, once an intrepid adventurer and friend to many, was now a hermit, living in his small one-room cottage in Dun Morogh. The only exception to his self-exile was to hunt for food. He lived off of the native boars that had only recently held its biggest population explosion since the Second Great War.

And since his withdrawal from the world, at the first of every month, members of both Horde and Alliance lined up at his doorstep, waiting with silver pieces in hand, for Cog to appear. He never did, and merely sat next to his small fireplace. It was a celebrated holiday on the first of every month to wait at Cog's door.

Years passed before Cog made another public appearance. His hair was grey and stubble had begun to grow into a goatee. He held a twig and used it as he would a cane. The crowd watched patiently as he stepped tentatively down the front step. At first, Cog only grunted. Moments passed, and Cog flashed a wide smile.

That was truly a day of jubilation. Cog was punted many-a-time and received the customary two silver for his services. By nightfall, campfires were built, and songs were sung, and Cog provided a feast suitable for the High Tinker himself. The next day was much of the same, and Cog was punted for a two-day total of one-hundred-and-seventy-eight times. The last punter of the festival was a very young boy of tauren descent, named Killian.

Killian was enjoying his seventh winter celebration, and as such, Cog had allowed him a free punt. Cog had seen nothing wrong with the non-charge, having made three whole gold pieces and fifty-seven silver in a span of two days. So, he assumed his position while Killian prepared himself.

"Ready when you are, sonny!" Cog called out.

Killian began his charge, priming his kicking leg. His hooves dug forcefully into the snow-covered ground. His last step, he pulled back his right leg and swung it forward with tremendous force. It made contact and Cog was sent flying. Killian watched as the diminutive gnome cleared the distant trees. The crowd cheered before dissipating quickly to wherever they willed, and Cog never returned home.


End file.
